


The Traveller

by Greysgate



Series: The Immortal Beloved Series [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 09:52:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14615784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greysgate/pseuds/Greysgate
Summary: Duncan meets an old acquaintance, who needs his help finding someone very important to both the Immortals and The Watchers.





	The Traveller

**Author's Note:**

> Published in 1994 under the name Victoria Rivers
> 
> The part of Tor Somerset was played by Justin Hayward. :)

He could have been any young man in his late teens or early twenties, except for the fact that time had ceased to be measured for him as it did for the rest of humanity. With his headphones piping a breezy rock tune into his head, he had paid only minimal attention to the other pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk as he strolled in time to the jaunty beat. He had been on his way to the dojo to visit with his mentor, the barbarian from the Scottish Highlands who had become a modern man.

Duncan MacLeod looked no more than thirty-something on his weariest days, with his fine bronzed skin and thick black hair swept back into a ponytail, his powerful, athletic body carrying him through endless days with a feline grace few managed to achieve in a lifetime. For the quiet, reclusive man hid a secret few people ever guessed, and only the soul-deep sadness in his clear, sherry-colored eyes ever gave a clue to the hundreds of years -- and lives -- he had lived. He was one of the family of Immortals, bound to live forever from the moment of First Death, surviving the Quickening and countless mortal wounds until the moment his head rolls from his shoulders and frees all that he is and has ever been.

Richie Ryan was a fledgeling in that family, having only recently learned the rules of conduct from his beloved teacher and friend. He had known MacLeod's secret long before his own death, and when he had awakened in the night, knowing that he had been killed, the surprise had been alsmot exhilirating except for the sadness of losing his friend Tessa, who had been MacLeod's fianceé. She had died right beside him on the street, never to rise as he did, and that sorrow had shrouded both the men's lives with a somber cloak of mourning.

But life for the Immortals reeled endlessly on, and Richie had begun to prepare himself for the inevitable meetings with others of his kind that he must face, meetings where many of them would draw a length of steel and try to take his head.

After all, there can be only One, in the end.

But that was far from his thoughts as he swam through the current of mortal bodies flowing along the sidewalk. There was always the warning, that feeling of pressure, like the eardrums about to pop when changing altitude in flight; a sense of electric _ATTENTION!_ so strong it would bring an Immortal to a sudden stop to seek out the eyes that would always be searching for his at the same moment. They all felt it when they drew close to one another, even he and Duncan when they had been separated by enough distance. After a few uncomfortable minutes the warning would pass and allow them to feel at ease with each other once again. But it always served its purpose.

He swung toward the curb, glanced up at the light, right and left for traffic, and stepped out into the street to cross.

And stopped three strides onto the pavement.

His head came up, wary eyes seeking, searching.

A couple stood on the corner across the street, both still as statues, sober-faced and staring right at him. After a moment the woman smiled and nodded, then turned back to her companion and began to speak again quite casually. The man kept his eyes on Richie, his expression carved in stone.

 _Not him,_ Richie told himself. He glanced about, shook himself a little and continued across the street. He watched the man turn as he approached, still listening to the woman beside him without taking his eyes off Richie.

The young Immortal slipped the headphones off his ears, letting the headset embrace his neck, and stood still a few feet away, waiting. It had to be one of them, he was sure, but the woman had hardly taken notice of him and he didn't think it was the man, regardless of how intense that look in his eyes had been. He _knew,_ but he wasn't one of them. So it had to be the woman. Not that it mattered, really. He had no sword with him just then and knew nothing would happen in such a public place, but he was curious. He'd met few enough of the Immortals and had only had a couple of close calls himself, but he had yet to establish friendships with any of the others, as MacLeod had done over the centuries.

Presently the woman finished speaking. She laid a small hand gently on her companion's arm and gave it a squeeze to draw his attention back to her. He nodded gravely, took her hand for a moment in both of his, and then strode off into the crowd.

But in that one instant when the couple's hands were clasped, Richie had seen the black tattoo shadowing the man's left wrist -- a raven diving to the bottom of a circle -- symbol of the Watchers, the mortals who kept track of the Immortal folk, and who had lately begun to kill them off.

The woman faced Richie again, smiling warmly into his eyes. She was lovely, a petite brunette with flawless skin and eyes as black as night. There was nothing at all unusual about her other than her striking beauty, nothing what would draw a man to a standstill to stare at her, and suddenly Richie felt foolish about how he must look to passers-by.

He stepped closer and introduced himself, unsure if he should offer his hand or not.

She cocked her head and flashed two perfect dimples at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"You're new t'all this, eh, lad?" she said brightly, with a trace of plaid and heather in her voice. "I've had more names than I care to remember, so I'll let ye call me what ye will." She reached for his elbow as she stepped up to his side. "Ye look like a friendly type. Would ye like to go somewhere t'chat for a bit?"

Too surprised to speak, Richie fell into step beside her and let her lead the way to a little French bistro down the street.

It was easy talking to her. There were things he asked her that he'd been unable to put to Duncan, personal questions like how to know it was safe to tell a mortal his secret, and whether it was better to go or stay if you thought you were falling in love. There were practical questions, too, about establishing new identities and safe places to keep money and personal treasures. All the Immortals were collectors in some fashion, and he had his own passions as well. Those were things he was sure Duncan would eventually teach him, but he found it so much more pleasant talking to this woman, this stranger, than to Duncan of late.

Two hours later he found himself inviting her back to the dojo with him, unwilling to relinquish the pleasure of her company so soon. And without hesitation she climbed on the back of his motorcycle, her lithe arms clasped firmly about his waist, and went with him. It wasn't until she stood on the threshold of the door to the training hall that he realized that he hadn't once mentioned his mentor's name.

Duncan had heard Richie's voice and laughter as he approached the doorway, and neglected to heed the warning as the awareness pressed against his skin. He clawed the air with strong bronzed fingers, swept upward in a graceful arc with the flat of one foot and sank downward to avoid an imaginary kick to his head. The ancient dance was a deadly one, a catalog of destruction that he had practiced almost daily for centuries, so much a part of him that he never thought about what he was doing. While keeping his muscles and reflexes toned, he could use the forms as a meditation, an escape from the memories of so many lifetimes.

But practice time for himself was over. Richie had arrived at last, and it was time for their fencing match to begin. He turned to face the young man and remind him of his tardiness, but the words disappeared like flash paper touched to a flame. His eyes locked with the dark ones regarding him from the doorway and the past came washing over him like a tidal wave.

He realized his mouth was open, and snapped it shut. She couldn't be; he wasn't remembering right. But as the woman stood poised on one foot, the other frozen in half-step, her hand lightly touching the doorframe, he could see her clad in rough woolens, her hair a dark cloud about her face, lips slightly parted and whispering his name as she lay beneath him on the forest floor. Those eyes, those ancient eyes that had seen so much still sparkled with joy and recognition as she looked upon him.

"Duncan?" she whispered, not daring to believe, the young man at her side and every other person temporarily forgotten as she stared at the half-naked man in the middle of the room.

He could see her lips forming his name, but she was too far away to hear. It was enough to tell him who she was, and to lift his foot to move toward her.

"Riona?" he called softly, taking another, surer step.

Little golden bells tinkled in her laughter. She set her foot down and lifted her arms in welcome.

"I am Riona MacKenzie of the Clan MacLeod," she declared clearly, and raced toward him, flinging herself into his open arms as he ran to meet her. She knocked him down and he rolled as he fell with her onto the exercise mat, both of them laughing and kissing each other's faces without regard to the bystanders who had suddenly stopped their workouts to watch the addled pair's reunion.

"I should have known," Richie mumbled, shaking his head resignedly and leaning against the wall by the door.

Duncan stopped rolling when Riona lay pinned beneath him.

"Och, get off me, ye big caber, before I have to toss ye!" she wheezed, popping the side of his head playfully with her open palm. He laughed and pushed upward, then reconsidered and dropped back down to deliver a passionate kiss to those smiling, teasing lips. A tear slipped out from the corner of her eye and disappeared into her hair, but not before grazing his thumb as he caressed her face with trembling fingers.

He eased off her then, catching her hands with easy grace as he rose, and pulled her lightly to her feet amid scattered bursts of applause from the bemused bystanders. Riona blushed and glanced up at Duncan's embarrassed shrug and he led her away to the elevator that would take them up to the loft, with Richie in tow.

"D'you, like, know everybody, Duncan?" Richie growled sarcastically as he flopped down on the sofa in the middle of the big open room. "And just how many of you guys are Highlanders? This makes three of you now that I've met in just a couple years. And all of you from the Clan MacLeod."

"Over time there've been 17 of us from Scotland, 12 from the Highlands," Riona answered automatically.

Duncan looked surprised that she would know such details. Even he hadn't known such statistics.

"We MacLeods are the last ones left," she finished sadly. "But then, it's the Gathering, and there can be only One." She sighed and looked at the floor.

"I never thought to see you again, mo dhu," Duncan said to her, aware of how his chest had tightened around his heart whenever he looked at her. "I didn't know you were one of us. I've never heard your name mentioned by any others, or I would have looked for you."

Riona stiffened and raised her eyes slowly to his. "No, I dinna suppose ye would, Duncan. And I hope ye'll tell no one my true name among our kind. The Watchers need'nt know who I am." She flowed onto the sofa beside Richie, settling sloftly as a cloud over a mountaintop.

Richie's brow creased into a frown. "Don't they know already?" he asked harshly. "You were talking to one of them when I first saw you."

She smiled indulgently in his direction. "They've known me by many names, Richie, but never my own and that's how I'd like to keep it."

"Just hope they let you keep your head," he tossed back angrily, "if they find out what you are."

She cocked her head again, her raven brows drawing together for a moment over that puzzling statement. "And what d'ye mean by that, lad? There are no Immortals among the Watchers. We havena a thing to fear from them."

Duncan parked his hip on the back of the sofa and idly lifted a lock of her hair as he gazed at her profile below him. "I guess you haven't heard about Darius, then."

"Yes. He died in Paris." She glanced away from him, her hands clasping each other in her lap nervously. "They said you had done it. I thought Darius must have asked you to."

The Highlander laughed once, sharply, like a gunshot in the quiet room. He rose from his perch on the sofa back, the sudden rush of anger and grief forcing him to his feet, demanding that he move. He stepped away, shoved his hand in his pants pockets, yanked them out again and stepped back to the couch.

"Darius died on holy ground, Riona," he growled, bending over her like a snake about to strike. "The Watchers killed him. I was there right after they did it, too late for the Quickening. Everything he was is lost to us."

"Oh, Duncan!" Riona fairly leaped off the sofa. "You're sure? It was the Watchers?" The color drained out of her face. "Then it's more important than ever that I find the Traveller. Before they do."

"The Traveller?" Richie asked, glancing up at Duncan.

Duncan's eyes looked past Riona's troubled face, focused on a memory surfacing from his distant past.

"I've been with him for four hundred years," she said quietly, her voice fading slowly away, "and I still don't know his name."

* * *

It had been an autumn afternoon the year Duncan turned 80, and he had been strolling down a boulevard in London, dressed in English finery, his sword at his side, looking for a suitable inn to pass the night in comfort. Along the way, still some distance ahead, a tall man in simple clothes sat on a stool, his back pressed against the wall of a jeweler's shop, a lute held lovingly in his arms. The music he played was beautiful, haunting, and towed Duncan toward the minstrel like an invisible hand. A smile curved Duncan's sensuous mouth, and he felt for his purse to toss a coin into the minstrel's pewter cup as he passed. He might even stay for a while just to listen.

But the smile vanished suddenly as his eyes darted about, searching for the Other who was suddenly near.

Duncan had never seen a man so huge as the red-haired giant who stepped out of the crowd beside the minstrel. He could feel it now, emanating like heat from an oven. Both of them!

The giant took no notice of the Highlander as he approached, though the minstrel lifted his blond head and made eye contact with Duncan for a fleeting moment. He continued to play on, watching his fingers on the strings rather than meet the giant's intense gaze.

"Draw your sword, minstrel!" the giant growled again, shaking his fist in the blond's face. His clothes and accent marked him as a Norseman, though the sword he carried was a Scottish Claymore. Booty, perhaps, from a raid.

"I have none, sir," the musician answered softly, though his clear voice carried to Duncan easily. "Will you take my head in this public place, in front of mortal witnesses?"

"You know the rules, English," the giant snarled. "There can be only One! Come away with me and be done with this."

The music continued without a pause. "I am in no hurry to die, my friend."

"I am Nils Redbeard of the Northlands!" roared the Norseman. "You will fight me as is my right."

The blond smiled. "I will live, as is mine."

Redbeard roared in frustration and shook his fist in the air. "I will watch you, English coward," he promised darkly, "and I will strike when the moment is right."

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the Highlander said evenly as he stepped up beside the pair. "Could I interest ye both in a cup o' wine at yon tavern?"

Redbeard's sword rang out of its scabbard as he stepped back into a half crouch, ready for the challenge from this new adversary. He was stunned and angry that he'd been concentrating so hard on the Englishman that he hadn't felt the Scot's approach. That was a good way to lose your head.

"I'm ready, MacLeod!" he growled.

Duncan had smiled then. "Good! Then we can raise a cup to the Old Ones who knew everything first. Will ye join us, friend minstrel?"

The blond looked up fully into Duncan's face and flashed a beautiful, warm smile. "There is wisdom among your weapons, young one," he said soflty. With a nod of acknowledgement he lifted the lute by the neck, bent to pick up his pewter cup at his feet and emptied the contents into a pocket in his worn coat. He hooked the cup handle over his little finger and stepped off the stool to his feet, straightening to his full height.

He towered over the Norseman and the Highlander, his face the picture of gentleness and warmth. Broad, powerful shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist and long, powerful legs. A warrior's physique, surely, but he stood erect with a presence and a posture that were no less than regal.

The Norseman took a startled step backward. He gazed up into the kindly appraising blue eyes and sheathed his long sword uneasily. He had misjudged this one completely, and it would be safer for him to wait and watch and see what happened between the English and the Scot. Two at a time might be difficult if they were working together.

"Another time, then," Redbeard scowled softly. After a hard glance at each of them, he turned and moved off into the sparser traffic as people hurried home from the day's errands.

* * *

"To the Old Ones," said Duncan as he lifted his cup a few minutes later.

A small smile teased at the corners of the Englishman's mouth. "And to the wise young ones," he said solemnly, and raised his own cup to his lips, "who will be old ones one day."

Duncan was thoughtful for a moment. "You didn't give Redbeard your name," he mused.

"One is as good as another, I find," the blond replied with a shrug. "And I have found that anonymity is best when your name is known even by simple peasants, and hope still lives in men's hearts that you will return to lead them to glory."

"So you were a king." Duncan's eyes saw the carelessly upright posture, the squared shoulders, the benevolently attentive expression and recognized the attitude of a born leader.

"And a page and a warrior and a pilgrim and a thousand other things," the Englishman chuckled. "But I find the life of a travelling musician suits me best. What about you, Scotsman? What have you been?"

"Son of a laird. Hunter. Soldier. Stonemason. Sculptor. Today I'm a fencing master to the court." There was no boastfulness to his manner, only the quiet statement of fact.

The Englishman caught his eye with his steady sapphire gaze. "And if you keep your head about you, my young friend, what will you become?"

"I thought I might see a bit of the world."

The blond nodded. "See it all. Be many things. Learn all you can and appreciate the fleeting lives of the mortals who surround you, and make the Clan MacLeod proud to have spawned you."

"You willna tell me your name, either, then?" Duncan asked shyly. He recognized a polite dismissal when he heard one, and he wasn't sure he wanted to part company just yet. He could think of a thousand questions to ask this one, not the first of which was why he carried no sword when every man of worth had one ever by his side, and no Immortal was safe without one. This king might be dressed in the clothes of a wandering minstrel, but who and what he was broadcast the truth of his identity in every graceful gesture and the bearing of one born to power and responsibility.

The Englishman quaffed another taste of the watered wine and placed his cup down in the same spot it had been a moment before. Those cool, intense blue eyes twinkled with knowledge as he measured the dark younger man before him. "I think you will discover it on your own one day, Highlander," he said evenly. "If you stay attached to your head long enough to figure it out."

"I never said I was from the Highlands," Duncan countered, wondering if the king had heard of him somehow, and knew who he was. And he'd tried to avoid notoriety and public acclaim, too.

"Everything about you tells me, MacLeod, when one knows the Highland spirit as well as I. Live well, young friend, and learn what mortals have to teach you." He rose in one fluid movement, taking up his instrument in one long-fingered hand. With a regal nod and a half-bow of favour, he turned and made his way quietly out of the tavern.

* * *

The sound of Richie's incredulous voice brought him out of his reverie. "How can you live with someone for four _hundred_ years and not know his name?"

Riona chuckled. It isn't as if we had driver's licenses on our persons when I first met him, Richie. People went by the name they gave to others, and he changed his every time we moved to a new town or village. And we stayed no longer than the passing of a moon in any one place."

"All that travel must've worn thin after a few hundred years," Duncan mused. He'd been a wanderer for a time, too, but he hadn't been able to keep it up. He needed a place to call home for a time, familiar faces around him, and friendships, however fleeting, to sustain his sanity.

She shrugged. "It wasn't as if we wandered without purpose," she explained. "He was a chronicler of sorts, amassing information on mortals and Immortals alike. And we always had each other for company."

Duncan's eyes flew to Richie's face with silent alarm. "He wrote about us? For the Watchers?"

Riona looked decidedly uncomfortable for a moment. "He created them," she admitted at last. "They were the descendants of his followers, his knights. After a few generations they forgot he was one of the Immortals, that he even existed. As far as we know, our names have never been entered on the Watchers' lists, and none of the Immortals have made us a successful challenge. Neither he nor I have ever taken a head."

"Never?" Duncan was shocked. "I don't believe -- how can you have survived all this time without--"

"The Traveller had had enough of killing before his Quickening," she explained sadly. "He was mortally wounded on a battlefield after many of his knights had been slaughtered, and when he found himself alive and healed the next morning, he vowed to God never to lift a sword again. He had his own blade cast into a lake when he was carried from the massacre."

"Boy, this guy must lead a charmed life," Richie observed admiringly.

"He's just very smart," Duncan put in. "He kept to public places and holy ground, making sure the two of you were never alone."

Riona smoothed her hands across her trousers and crossed her arms, glancing guiltily up at Duncan as her cheeks flushed pink. "Well, we have had some privacy over the years, Duncan," she confessed hesitantly. "We were married almost 200 years ago."

Duncan nodded as if he'd been expecting that revelation. The admiration and intimacy with which she'd spoken of the man had been plain enough evidence that she loved him. But the admission of her marriage produced a dull ache in Duncan's chest that grew sharper as their eyes met once more.

"What about you, Duncan?" Riona asked softly, moving around the end of the couch to stand before him. She laid a hand gently on his arm. "Do you have someone? Did you marry?"

He shook his head, frowning as he remembered Tessa. Another memory caressed his thoughts, and he smiled a little. "I've got a girlfriend now. She's a doctor."

Richie watched the interplay between the two Immortals and a wry grin sneaked across his face. "How about you two? Were you...close?" he asked, glancing from one to the other as they gazed into each other's eyes. He watched enviously as Riona snuggled up against Duncan's chest in a familiar embrace.

"We grew up together in the same village, Richie. He was the laird's son, and I was a girl with marriage in mind every time I looked at him." She smiled against Duncan's shirt. "Yes, we were lovers, Richie. First kisses and everything."

Her face clouded with some dark memory, and she pulled back far enough she could look up into Duncan's sad eyes. "My father kept me bound in our hut for days after your father banished ye, Duncan, sayin' that ye'd sold your soul to the devil. I tried to defend ye, but no one would hear me. And then a few years later when that ox-cart ran me down and I rose up from my deathbed, they all cried 'witch' and set about burnin' me at the stake. That's when the Traveller came through and took me away wi' him, and me a smokin' bit o' charcoal wi' legs."

"Oh, Riona, I'm so sorry," Duncan sighed painfully. He had seen enough witch-burnings to know what must've happened to her, what agony she must have suffered, though she would have healed quickly enough. But the trauma would have left its mark on her soul still. He wondered if she still had nightmares about fire. He snuggled her closer and kissed the top of her dark head. Memories came flooding back to him of her bright smiles and teasing, of stolen kisses in the shadow of great ancient trees, of the introduction to the pleasures of a woman's flesh through her blood and pain, blessed by the light of her steadfast love. They would have been married in another few months, had he not been driven away, but at least he had been spared the fire she'd been unable to escape. He owed her many debts from their mutual past, and though he had carried her in his heart for eons, he never thought to see her again, believing her long dead.

But she was warm and real in his arms, and he didn't want to let her go ever again.

Riona pulled reluctantly away. " 'Tis long past, Duncan," she said sadly, her black eyes flicking up quickly to his and then away. "I've watched your progress with interest over the years, and with pride. The Traveller always speaks very highly of ye."

"Is that what you call him all the time?" Richie asked, trying not to grin as he imagined an intimate moment punctuated by lusty cries of that moniker from her lovely lips.

Riona blushed, understanding. "No. We married under the name of Tor Somerset. When we're alone, I call him that."

Duncan studied her for a moment, another few pieces of the puzzle falling into place. He began to wonder then if he might know another name by which the Traveller had once been called. He'd have to ask the man, if he proved to be the same minstrel he'd met briefly 300 years earlier.

"So where is he now, Riona?" he asked softly.

"I don't know, and that's what worries me." She moved away and returned to her seat on the couch before continuing, an air of sadness clinging to her every gesture. She sighed wearily. "He'd been...troubled for some time now, Duncan. He hasn't said a word in two years. Doesn't touch any of his musical instruments. Sits in his chair all day, staring out the window. I took care of him myself most of the time, but now and then I'd take him to an institution where I knew he'd be looked after well, and go see the sights. The world changes so much, ye well know. And it breaks my heart to see him like that, all drawn up inside himself."

She sighed again, trying to contain the emotion creeping into her narrative, but her pain was throbbing against its bounds, struggling to get free. Mournfully she went on. "I'd only been away two weeks, but when I came back for him, he was gone. Disappeared sometime in the afternoon that first week. I tracked him as far as this city, and my inquiries led me to that fellow you saw me with today, Richie. They think I'm the niece of one of their European Chroniclers. That's what their chiefs are called, ye know."

"And they're helping you look for him?" Duncan asked.

She nodded. "But if the Watchers have turned against us, and they discover he's an Immortal, then he'll be defenseless against them."

"Then we just have to get to him first," Duncan stated. "Let's go."

* * *

For two days the trio combed the city, working separately since Duncan and Richie were known to the local Watchers, though they hadn't encountered many since their relocation after Tessa's death. But all of Riona's leads were dead ends, and she would retire to her hotel each night with a heavy heart. Richie coaxed Duncan into accompanying him to a favorite gathering place in a run-down section of town for a drink and a chance to exchange ideas regarding what path to follow next.

The downstairs club was called "Avalon's Shadow" and was so dark and smoky that it was hard to see the people sitting at the next table, huddling conspiratorially over their lone candle at table center.

"I'll bet they don't have much of an electric bill," Duncan mused thoughtfully.

A waitress dressed all in black appeared at the table, the flickering flame between the two men illuminating her white hands and face, moving in the darkness like disembodied pieces. A frisson of revulsion shivered up Duncan's back as he watched her thoughtlessly chewing her cud.

"One beer, one black and tan," Richie ordered without asking for the menu he knew the place didn't have. "And bring us some chili fries and a bowl of mutton stew, no crackers, with a side of black bread and butter."

The girl floated away in the enveloping dark, and Duncan cocked an elegantly questioning eyebrow at his young friend. "Pretty tall order for a place like this," the Highlander grinned. "I doubt the cook knows what mutton is."

Richie grinned back. "He's a chef, not a cook, Mac. Serves English and Scottish fare regularly, and if it's not on the menu he'll offer you something else. Negotiate, kinda, depending on what he's got in the kitchen."

"What menu?" Duncan asked, lifting the candle up and pretending to search the table and floor.

From somewhere in the back of the room a guitar began to play, an old Celtic tune that Duncan knew from his youth. A sprinkling of applause greeted the musician's appearance, but Duncan didn't bother straining his eyes through the haze to locate the performer. There were other things on his mind.

"Oh, come on, Mac," Richie insisted. "The food is great. Trust me."

The pair chatted amiably about their problem, ate and drank companionably and tossed ideas back and forth about where next to look for the missing Traveller. There was always Joe at the bar, who might be coerced into keeping his ears open among the other Watchers, though Duncan doubted that the Watchers would really know anything about the man except what Riona had passed on to them. After supper they planned to go out to some of the homeless shelters to see if the Traveller had wandered in there, and they'd check with the police to see if he might have been arrested for vagrancy and been shuffled off to another mental hospital in the interim. Riona said he'd been gone for almost a month, but that she was certain he was in the city somewhere.

Richie paid the waitress and leaned his elbows on the table, staring thoughtfully at the greasy bowl his fries had once occupied. "I wonder how old Somerset is," he said quietly.

"About 14-1500, I'd say," replied Duncan casually.

The young man's eyes flew up to MacLeod's shadowy face. "You know who he is? When did you meet him? I _gotta_ know, Mac!"

The Highlander shook his head. "Only guesses, feelings. Nothing I can say for certain. We only met once, for a few minutes. _If_ this is even the same guy. I could be wrong." He pushed back from the table and stood up. "We should be on our way, Richie. We've got a lot of ground to cover still." But instead of heading for the door, he turned toward the back in search of another temporary destination with Richie on his heels.

Both of them stopped at the same moment, and for an instant the music was hushed as well. Carefully they moved closer to the guitarist, both pairs of eyes roaming over the man's shadowy form as he sat perched on a tall stool, hunched over a large classical acoustic, fingers moving expertly across the steel strings. There was no spotlight on him to reveal him to the crowded room, only the distant glow of candlelight from the surrounding tables illuminating his vague shape, full of shadows and the glistening of pale hair over his forehead. But he wasn't looking at them, hadn't bothered to make eye contact, though he knew for certain that they were there.

Duncan continued on to the men's room without looking back, but when he emerged he resumed his seat at the table they'd just quitted, and ordered another black and tan from the ghostly waitress. Richie joined him a few moments later.

"I thought we were leaving."

Duncan's eyes were on the shadow at the back of the long, dim room, and he didn't glance at his young friend when he spoke. "I don't think we need to anymore."

"Him?" Richie nodded at the mysterious Immortal softly strumming the old guitar in his lap. "Should I go call Riona?"

"Not till we've had a talk with Tor first. He must've had a reason for disappearing. He may be trying to protect her."

The two men sat quietly waiting until the music stopped, and watched the musician rise from his seat and stroll toward them. Without breaking stride he grasped an empty chair from a neighboring table and set it in place between the two men.

"It's been a long time," said Duncan warmly.

"You've exceeded my expectations, Highlander," the Englishman returned evenly, his voice silky in the darkness. "I'm glad you still have your head about you." He turned to regard the younger man. "You're new among us, aren't you?"

"Jeez, am I wearing a sign or something? How can you tell?" Richie grumbled, crossing his arms and daring the man to reveal his secret intuition.

"Your eyes," the Englishman replied with a brief smile. "They're still young."

"So why did you leave Riona?" Duncan asked pointedly. "She's looking for you."

"I know, MacLeod. She'll find me when it's safe."

"Do you want to tell me what you're doing, why you're hiding from her? She feels guilty enough for having left you."

The Englishman turned his gaze to the candle at table center. "I left her long before. It amazes me that she stayed with me as long as she did."

"She loves you, Your Majesty," Duncan said softly.

The king's eyes flicked up to MacLeod's with a brief flare of alarm. "And you also, Highlander," he returned warmly. "But I have not been a king for eons, and such titles are inappropriate in this country."

"Will you give us your name, then, sire, or must I take a guess?"

The blond smiled then, revealing small dimples in his smooth cheeks. "You are an old friend, MacLeod, so I will give you one of my old names. Tor Somerset."

MacLeod nodded. Glastonbury Tor was in Somerset, a place associated with an ancient king as much a myth as the court that once surrounded him, though all legends were at least partly based in fact. But there were more important things to discuss with this man.

"Have you made contact with the Watchers yet, Tor?" asked Duncan, lowering his voice a little.

A darker shadow passed over Somerset's angelic face, and he nodded. "It was they who forced me back to reason, MacLeod. Endless time can be a heavy burden on the soul, and for a while I could no longer bear to pay attention to its passing. There was a kind of pleasant peace in being... as I was, lost to all of this." His eyes flitted from table to table in the semidarkness, touching on the shadowy mortal faces with a trace of wistful affection. Then his gaze hardened and grew cold. "The Watchers discovered that I was an Immortal, and tried to take my head. The very thought of dying by a mortal's hand is beyond tragedy. Such waste!"

"They killed Darius, Tor," Duncan said sadly, his eyes on the candle flame, knowing the grief that announcement would bring to the Englishman.

 _"They?"_ The word was but a whisper, and after a moment's denial followed by the acceptance of plain truth, the big man snarled and pushed back in his chair so violently that the table in front of him shuddered backward a foot and his chair went crashing to the floor.

Duncan surged to his feet and caught Tor's arm to keep him from storming out. "There's nothing we can do about it now, Tor," he said. "Darius is gone. You can't bring back what he was."

 _"No!"_ Tor shouted, flinging his arm out of the Scotsman's grasp. Glancing about, he saw the patrons gradually lose interest and turn back to their own private conversations. His voice dropped to a deadly hiss as he leaned down to MacLeod's face, his eyes gleaming with rage. "They were supposed to _watch_ us! To be aware of our struggles for _them!_ How could they _dare_ to interfere? How could they destroy what was the best of us? Darius had wisdom none of the rest of us could begin to approach, MacLeod! _Don't you understand?_ Ambrosius was the first, the oldest. Ambrosius, my _teacher!_ Darius took his head when his troops passed through Saxon lands, just before my defeat at the hands of--"

He caught himself, his large, elegant hands flexing angrily, panting with righteous anger and ready to explode.

"They cannot go unpunished, MacLeod," he growled hoarsely, choked with fury. "I will destroy them for what they've done."

"You can't, Tor," Duncan shot back. "The one who killed Darius is dead now, and not all of the Watchers are caught up in this war. Some of them still follow the path you set them on; they watch and learn from us and hope the last one will be kind and wise. One like you, who has never taken a head, or killed save on the battlefield."

The Englishman's anguished eyes turned on the Highlander then, and he saw in the shadowy depths a grief to match his own. His rage stumbled then and began to ebb, and he drew the dark one into his arms, embracing him as a brother, as men once did without shame when there was great feeling between them. Then he turned to the young man still seated in his chair, eyeing them both intently, waiting.

Tor laid a hand on Richie's shoulder. "You are blessed to have such a one as this to be your guide, young one."

"Richie."

Tor nodded. "Stay with him, Richie, for as long as you can. Watch his back for him and give him unquestioned loyalty, for the Gathering may take generations yet to end. Trust him, learn from him, and he will keep you alive."

He turned away from them then and returned to the stool in the back to fetch his guitar.

"Richie, would you call Riona and let her know that we've found her husband? Don't tell her about any of this, just that he's safe."

The young man nodded and rose to make his way to the old-fashioned wood and glass paneled phone booth near the stairs that led up to street level. The call was brief and pleasant, and he promised to tell her more later on, but when he exited the booth, neither of his companions was in sight.

In 1840 the building was erected as an exclusive men's club, and in 150 years it had had no other tenants. Downstairs was a fashionable restaurant and common room where members gathered for conversation, chess or just a moment to read the day's paper. Above that were private rooms, and on the top four floors an enormous library, chiefly composed of hand-written journals and log-books, which were still being entered into the computer network. And at the top, inset from the edges of the parapet, stood a penthouse meeting room with mullioned glass windows on every face and a large skylight on the roof to let in the sun and allow vistas of the night sky to those who gathered there occasionally for meetings.

Two men crossed a sea of rooftops to get there, and had tried the windows and the single door that let out onto the large landscaped balcony, but could find no easy entry aside from breaking glass. They climbed the penthouse to the roof before the handful of others began to file into the softly lit room, and the pair stood silently by, the night wind ruffling their hair, as they waited for the meeting to begin.

"You don't have to do this, Tor," Duncan said, his voice a breath short of a whisper.

Tor Somerset raised his eyes to the Highlander's, starlight making them glint hard and cold as he regarded the dark man. "Yes, I do, MacLeod, and you know it. Whether they will listen or not is all that remains to be seen."

The sound of a gavel striking a wooden block snatched their attention to the scene below.

" 'Tis time, Highlander. Wait for my return," Tor ordered firmly.

The big man gathered himself, tucked his face in the crook of an arm, and leaped feet first onto the skylight glass. He plummeted onto the table below amid a shower of splintering glass, and stood still just long enough for most of the shards to settle amid the shouts of alarm and cries of pain from airborne slivers and chunks of glass. Then he strode to the far end of the long table and leaped lightly to the floor.

He strode quickly to the head of the table and roughly shoved the speaker aside.

"Hear me, Watchers!" he cried, his powerful voice filling the room. "Your time is at an end! You have betrayed your purpose, and must therefore cease to be."

"What the hell?" shouted one man.

"Call the cops, Ashton!" another yelled. "Get this lunatic out of here!"

"Make no move, any of you mortals, lest I snuff out your brief, precious lives," snarled Tor.

Every man in the room eased into a sudden quiet, and all eyes and ears fixed on the tall blond man.

Tor shook some of the glass from his coat, then raised his eyes to them, one by one, examining each face.

"Yes, I am an Immortal," he said clearly, an edge to his voice that could have cut stone. "You do not have my name in your record books, nor any other name that I have ever used. For centuries I have moved among you, passing on names of other Immortals that I encountered in my travels, and always, always you kept faith with me and my kind. Between us there was hope, and I grew to love you as a father loves his sons, for it was I who made you and set you on your course, I who first revealed the secret to my devoted followers, who passed it on to the chosen of their sons. Even now I would guess that you do not know the blood of legend that flows in your veins."

"Who are you?" asked the speaker.

Tor almost smiled. "You know me by a name that was not given to me until after I became what I am, but I will not tell you, Watchers. I will leave you with this mystery and charge you to disband."

"On what grounds?" demanded a white-haired man near the back, holding a handkerchief to a cut on his cheek. "We've done what we were charged to do."

"Some of you, perhaps," Tor answered coldly. "But there are those among you who see the Immortal Clan as evil and seek to destroy us."

A shout of protest broke free from a handful of the men.

"There have been witnesses to the murders you committed among us, so we know what you have done. I cannot allow you to take any more of us. Those renegades who have begun to kill Immortals have endangered you all."

"What do you mean?" said a strident voice to his left. The man who spoke had cold gray eyes and a look of raw hatred on his face.

Tor's eyes blazed blue fire as he met the man's gaze. "You have chronicled us, counted us, catalogued us until you know exactly how many of us there are and where we live, for the most part," he growled menacingly, "but did it never occur to you that your names and numbers have been counted as well?"

A look of shocked surprise crossed the Watcher's face, and melted into a stiff mask of determination. "You wouldn't dare!" he snarled. "We outnumber you now."

The Englishman laughed hollowly. "Do you think you can kill us all? How can you guarantee that another Immortal will not be made moments before you take the last known Immortal's head, and the new one be completely unaware that he is the Chosen? What kind of legacy will you have left mankind then? For even now in the midst of the Gathering, new ones are born to us, and only another Immortal can identify them for you. Have you though on this, Lloyd Barnhart Ashton?"

The Watcher only scowled.

Somerset's eyes moved back to the elderly man who spoke earlier. "Tonight, every book in this building will burn," he pronounced solemnly. "All electronic information on the Immortals will be wiped clean. Telephone calls will be made to every branch of the Order all over the world with the same instructions. The Watchers will disband on the order of the one who brought them together." He sighed and went on. "If my orders are disobeyed, I and my brothers and sisters will see to it by whatever means is necessary. We know who you are and how to find you. And remember that we Immortals have had _generations_ to learn how to create new lives without leaving a trace of the old."

Ashton leaned forward on the tabletop on his fists, ignoring the glass chips grinding into his knuckles. "If you want a war, we'll give you one, you unnatural freak!"

Tor stiffened at that remark, but refused to be baited into retort.

"No, Ashton," said the silver-haired Watcher, moving slowly around the floor to avoid the glass shards as he approached the younger man. "If you have done as this fellow said, then he's right. It isn't safe for any of us, Watcher or Immortal, to have this information anymore."

"Safe for _us_?" Ashton snapped. _"They're_ the problem! A cancer that needs to be cut away from the heart of humanity."

The older man laid a placating hand on Ashton's arm. "This is wrong, Lloyd. Regardless of who this fellow is, he's taken a great risk coming here and announcing himself to us. I had heard the rumors about renegades and discounted, them, but now I have to reconsider."

"He has no proof!" shouted Ashton. "How can you give any credit to him? We don't even know if he's really an Immortal or not."

A sound like flapping wings followed by a heavy thud drew every eye back to the middle of the long table, and Duncan MacLeod rose up from the crouch he'd landed in and drew his bright sword.

"I think I can vouch for that, Ashton," MacLeod returned coolly. "You all know me, right? I met this fellow about, oh, 300 years ago, give or take a generation. And I've _seen_ the Watchers kill. On holy ground, no less."

"You're certain it was a Watcher, MacLeod?" the white-haired man asked unhappily.

The Highlander reached out and grasped the old man's left wrist and turned it upward to show off the black tattoo. His eyes were hard, remembering. "Horton nearly killed me as well, Grayson. It is Grayson, isn't it?"

The old man nodded. "Well, that's good enough for me," he said solemnly. "We all know MacLeod is a man of character. I think we can believe him in this."

Ashton stepped back, turning on Grayson angrily. "How can you let them live? Don't you know they'll enslave us all?"

Grayson shook his head. "You've learned nothing, Lloyd. Can't you see the direction our world is headed? Ten generations from now this planet may be dead because we never look past the day's profits. We _need_ the Immortals, and the years they've had among us. It's been our place to watch them, to learn about their character and which ones grew in wisdom, so that we could protect them from those whom greed controls, who lust so after the power of the Prize. That's _our_ reward, Lloyd. We were to help choose our future through the Immortals. You and all those who think like you have taken away that choice. I just hope it's one of these two who wins. Get out of my sight, Ashton. You're done here."

He turned his back on the younger man, who turned sullenly away and strode off down the stairs.

"Gentleman," said Tor solemnly, "you have my deepest regrets, however little that is worth. There may still be time yet to recover a glimpse of the future. Burn the past, as I have asked, and weed out those among you like Ashton who would cheat us all. Write nothing down and work in secret, as though the disbanding is complete, and perhaps in time those of you whose hearts are true to mankind may begin again. When you have cleaned your own house, only then can you turn your attention to us and offer us your aid once more."

Grayson nodded graciously, and Tor Somerset bowed his head as the half-dozen Watchers filed past him, retreating downstairs to begin the end of the Order.

MacLeod strolled softly down the table and leaped down with the lightness of a great black cat. "Shall we go by the stairs or the roof, sire?" he asked with a half-smile.

But Tor didn't look up from the floor. "I always thought it strange that we kept the scars we had before the Quickening," he said wearily. Without thinking he raised his left arm and pulled back the cuff of his jacket and shirt to reveal the puckered, slick white scar on the tender inside of his wrist. The raised flesh bore the imprint of a large, irregular circle with a stylized "V" pointing down the length of his arm. "Ambrosius gave me this when I was a lad. Branded me himself, to remind me that I was blessed. He could tell before the Quickening, you know."

"Do you miss him?"

A warm smile dented his cheeks as Tor tucked his sleeve back in place. "Aye, Duncan. I still see his face in my dreams."

"Did you hate Darius for killing him?"

Tor shook his fair head, the smile fading away. "No. We all die, eventually. All that Ambrosius was passed into Darius, so I knew that, in a way, he was still with me. I hoped that I would join him if my own head and body should go their separate ways. But that was not to be."

"Come on, sire. Let's get you back to your wife. I think the Watchers will be very busy for a while."

The pair exited the building into the night, moving slowly through the crowd now gathered on the sidewalk outside the old masonry edifice. Several blocks later the wail of sirens touched their ears, marking the first step of the Watchers' demise. The pair turned down a short street lined with small shops all asleep for the night, and Duncan felt the first shimmers of warning at the back of his consciousness, his ears straining for the faint echo of footsteps that he thought he'd heard.

 _There, behind them._ He turned his head slightly to see if the hunters were showing themselves, but there were only shadows, nothing that moved.

"Run," he whispered to Tor.

Both men took off down the street, blazing across the pavement. Down another street and around a corner they went, Duncan pouring on all the speed he had and the tall Englishman pacing him easily.

"Go on!" Duncan gasped. "Get to the hotel. I'll hold them off."

"We stay together," panted Tor. "I'll watch your back."

They rounded a corner and slid to a stop on a boulevard lit only by starlight. All the street lamps had been knocked out, and a handful of shadowy figures oozed out from between parked cars on every side of the two men. A glimmer of starlight on steel caught Duncan's eye, and instinctively he turned to face the man with the blade.

"No!" came a cry to his immediate left, echoed by the report of a pistol. He felt Tor leap past him, jostling Duncan's shoulder as he fell, but before the Scot could right himself and turn to face the shooter, Tor regained his balance from the impact of the first bullets slamming into his body and flung himself toward the renegade Watcher, his long form stretched out in flight, shuddering as more tiny missiles splattered into his flesh.

He crashed into Ashton, his right hand closing over the pistol and wrenching it away. It skittered away on the street, bouncing off Duncan's boot, and the Highlander picked it up and shoved it into his coat pocket.

Tor wrestled Ashton down, smashing his fist into the mortal's face.

"I don't want to hurt you, Ashton!" he cried. "Leave us be!"

Two men advanced on MacLeod with crowbars in hand. Deftly spinning out of harm's way, he kept one of them between him and the swordsman, sending them crashing into each other every other step. He deflected the rush of the stockier one, snatching the crowbar out of his hands as he passed by, checking the whereabouts of the other two men, and then cheerfully handing the tool back to the startled fellow. The other one rushed him, and Duncan stepped into the center of the man's circuit, stripping the crowbar away as the man went spinning to one side.

"Heads up!" Duncan called, and tossed the crowbar back into the Watcher's surprised grip. Duncan turned, ducking beneath the stocky man's swing at his head, then popping up to slap the heel of his hand against the brute's temple almost playfully. The swordsman stepped in with a thrust, but Duncan sent the stocky Watcher crashing into the man behind him, checking the thrust before it could reach its target.

A sudden flash of awareness made him turn to hunt for the second crowbar-wielding brute who should have been ready to strike at his back but was nowhere nearby. Duncan pivoted again to close the gap between him and Tor, who still knelt on Ashton's chest, and saw the third man lifting his weapon to smash down on the Englishman's back. Another strike was coming from the swordsman, and he had to react before he'd have time to shout a warning. The slice aimed at his ribs slashed a rip in his coat, but he dodged enough of the blade to keep it from doing him damage, caught the swordsman's wrist on the backside of the swing and pressed his elbow into a lock, forcing him to his knees in pain.

"Tor!" Duncan shouted, but the solid thud of heavy metal on flesh was echoed with an agonized grunt before he could finish the warning. He ripped the blade from the man's hand and gave him a powerful kick to the midsection to keep him down for a moment. He spun away from the other two, reaching out with the blade to deflect the crowbar as it came down a second time, and sparks flew as the iron bar skidded away down the spine of the steel blade, away from its intended target. Once the hoodlum's swing lost its momentum, Duncan shoved the man up and backward onto the pavement.

He turned again to check the whereabouts of the Watchers, and found only two. The swordsman had fled without the courage his weapon gave him, but the armed Watchers seemed even more intent on doing them both in. The two Watchers closed in on him, a stomp to the knee delaying one while MacLeod blocked another strike with his borrowed sword. But the blade snapped cleanly in two, the pointed tip flying off and pinging musically on the hard pavement some distance away. He dodged another swing, stepped in close when the strike had just passed his body and Duncan delivered a felling blow with the heel of his palm to the underside of the man's chin. The shock of the sudden, powerful strike turned out his lights and he fell senseless to the street.

Duncan whirled and blended in with the last Watcher's momentum, pulling the crowbar out of his grasp as he gave a painful twist to the man's gripping hand. He flung the weapon away savagely, leaned down to the man's sweating face and snarled, "He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day." He released the painful wristlock and shoved the man roughly to his knees.

The Watcher stumbled to his feet and limped hastily away into the night.

MacLeod turned toward the two men still in the street, the larger one still kneeling on the smaller one's chest.

Tor was hunched over Ashton, the musician's long-fingered hand wrapped securely around the leader's throat. But Tor was weakening, his ribs broken, his left arm hanging limply at his side, blood soaking into his jacket and shirt-front from the bullet wounds.

Duncan laid his hand lightly on Tor's shoulder and gently coaxed him into letting go. He hauled the Englishman to his feet, supporting him beneath his injured arm.

"Go home, Ashton," MacLeod said, breathing heavily. "And thank God you didn't make him kill you. He hasn't taken a life since he sent Excalibur back to the Lady of the Lake, whom I suspect was also one of us." He turned Tor around and guided the taller man gently away.

Ashton sat up, coughing as he tried to find his voice.

"Excalibur?" he wheezed. "You mean he's--"

MacLeod grinned, immensely pleased with himself. "Arthur Pendragon, Ashton," he finished for the man.

"How did you know?" groaned Tor. "There are no likenesses, no direct histories to prove that I ever existed. Even Geoffrey of Monmouth got the important things wrong."

Duncan tried to shrug. "It was the little things, sire."

Ashton watched the pair recede into blackness, too stunned to move for a long time. He picked himself up at last and wandered slowly back the way he had come, and to the darkness he whispered, "King Arthur." He lifted his tattooed wrist, even though it was too dark to see the familiar image that was cut into his skin years before. "The Knights of the Round Table."

He lifted his chin and gazed wonderingly up at the few bright stars in the sky, still mumbling.

"Arthur Pendragon. The once and future king." He covered his face with his hands in shame, and then looked down at his shoes, eyes misting with tears. "Dear God, how could we have been so wrong?"

* * *

The two men staggered down the street, singing a bawdy drinking song that no one had heard for centuries. The taller one leaned heavily on the other, and as they neared a well lit avenue the blond fell to his knees.

Duncan dragged Tor into an alley and propped him up against the brick wall behind the bar. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced at the patrons slowing down as they passed by the mouth of the alley, staring at the two of them.

"Hurry up, Tor," Duncan urged quietly, smiling at a couple who had stopped on the sidewalk to watch them.

" 'Ang on a minute," he gasped. "Be right back, mate."

He sagged against the wall as he ceased to breathe.

The Highlander counted off the minutes nervously, glancing at his companion's blood-soaked shirt. He took off his coat and gently draped it over the body to hide the grisly evidence in case any of the curious on the sidewalk ventured closer. He gave Tor's lifeless form a nudge with the toe of his boot as the young couple took a step toward them.

"Come on, Tor," he said softly. "We've got an audience." He looked up at the couple still some distance away. "It's all right, folks. My friend's had a bit too much. He'll wake up in a minute and we'll be on our way."

Tor gasped and stiffened, his long arms flailing about him for a moment before he opened his eyes. Coughing, he sat fully upright, Duncan's coat crumpling in his lap. "Wot's this?" he asked, lifting the lapels.

"Your shirt's a bloody mess," Duncan replied casually.

"We can't all be fashion plates," Tor sighed. "Mind if I borrow this for a bit?"

"By all means. And thanks for the save. You could've lost your head back there."

"I've seen you fight, Duncan. I knew you wouldn't let them kill me as long as I kept you from getting shot."

"Nobody's perfect, Tor. It was still a risk."

Tor shrugged into the coat and got slowly to his feet, brushing off the dirt and trash from his trousers. "I hate this, you know? Dying is _so_ undignified. Woke up once on the bottom of Loch Ness with a millstone chained to my ankles."

"Well, let's get you back to your fair Scottish maid, my friend," Duncan suggested warmly. "She may want to toss you back in once you tell her what you've been doing for the last month."

The two men laughed softly together and strode off into the night for home.

 

FIN


End file.
